Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol

by Creston Mapes

  SM: Are you talking about a concert tour?

  EL: In some form or fashion, probably.

  SM: Let me play devil’s advocate here. (laughing) Sorry about that.

  EL: (laughing)

  SM: Do you expect your old DeathStroke fans to come out to that tour? I mean, hasn’t there been a lot of animosity?

  EL: There’s definitely been a backlash. Some of the crazy, hard-core DeathStroke fans miss the old Everett Lester and company. But there are thousands of people we’ve heard from who are intrigued by what’s happened in my life. We want to meet those people and share more with them.

  SM: Allow me, if you will, to touch on the accident your nephew David was in last year. This seventeen-year-old boy was killed in a head-on car crash. I know he idolized you. How has his death impacted your life?

  EL: (pauses for some time) A culmination of events led me to Christ. The trauma I caused Olivia Gilbert and her family was one; David’s death was another. I am still hurting from that, because I let him and his older brother down. They did love me and my music, and I stood them up time and again… (pauses) It’s a debt I hope to repay in the days ahead—very soon.

  SM: We’ve talked before about your childhood. I know it was rough. How has your newfound faith helped you cope with that?

  EL: When we’ve talked in the past, Steve, I believed I was destined to be like my father all my life. He struggled with alcoholism, anger, adultery, depression… He actually drank himself to death. And I guess I always just assumed his sins would automatically be passed down to me, and I would have to bear them all my life. But I’ve got to tell you, dude, Christ changed all that. The lines of those habitual sins have been severed. I’m not saying I don’t sin, but I am free, I walk in the power of Christ, and I am forgiven. And that will be the lifeline I hope to pass down to my children.

  SM: Are children in the picture?

  EL: Karen wouldn’t have it any other way!

  SM: We’ve interviewed rock stars on the pages of this magazine who’ve said they were “born again,” said they had been converted to Christianity. Some really mega rock stars. I won’t name names. But my point is, they’ve fallen away. They’ve gone back to being the people they were before their religious conversions. What about you? Is this going to last?

  EL: All I can tell you is that since I surrendered my life to God one day when I was at the end of my rope in a high-rise down in Miami, I became a new person. The old Everett Lester is gone. I’m new—and I’ve never felt better, never felt like this before. It’s better than any drug I ever tried, which is what Karen promised me one time. But to answer your question, yes—it will last, simply because it’s not of me. If it was my doing, then it could easily be undone. You get me?

  SM: And your desire is to share your new faith with the world.

  EL: The problem is, Steve, you say that like it’s some heavy burden. But the thing is—it’s not! I’ve been made right with God thanks to Christ. I have new life! Now the Bible says, I should implore others to do the same! That’s what Karen did for me! Christ saved her. She became free and found the meaning of life. Then she pleaded with me to do the same, so I could enjoy the same peace and freedom and promise of eternal life she found. She didn’t do it out of obligation, but out of love for God…out of the joy that overflowed from her.

  SM: If you keep talking like this, you may convince me to be saved.

  EL: In that case, how would you like to stay for lunch?

  The End…for Now

  Author’s Note

  Dear friend,

  What a thrill it is that you chose Dark Star. Thank you. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. There will be more to come in the life of Everett Lester and company, so I hope you’ll stay tuned.

  Since 1983, I have been writing for a living. First as a newspaper reporter, then a creative director, and for about the past fifteen years, freelancing as a marketing specialist and magazine feature writer. Several years ago, my work came to a halt. Instead of pounding the pavement to find more, I felt God leading me to write fiction. His words came alive to me at that time: “What I tell you in the darkness, speak in the light; and what you hear whispered in your ear, proclaim upon the housetops” (Matthew 10:27).

  I had no publisher, agent, promise, or pay—only a burning desire to share the unconditional love of Christ through gritty, contemporary, riveting stories. When you hold Dark Star in your hands, realize that between that moment and this, there have been many trials, doubts, fears, rejections, and testings. At times I wondered if the “burning desire” was really put there by God or by me. But the day has come. God is faithful. He wanted this story told.

  There are thousands of people like Everett Lester, who are longing for acceptance, because the love of their family, their friends, and this world has let them down; it’s been conditional, based on their performance. There are thousands more who are searching for contentment in drugs, alcohol, careers, relationships, material possessions, and even other gods. I know; I’ve been there myself. Most of us have.

  But after all those avenues have been tried, Jesus is still standing at the door, arms outstretched, speaking the warm words He spoke so clearly to Everett Lester: “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest” (Mathew 11:28).

  My hope is that Dark Star made your heart pound with excitement, made you laugh and perhaps cry, carried you away from the cares of this world for a while, and most important, drew you—and those you love—into a deeper understanding of God’s grace and unconditional love. If so, to Him goes all the credit.

  I enjoy hearing from my readers. You may e-mail me at creston@crestonmapes.com and visit my website at crestonmapes.com.

  Fondly,

  Creston Mapes

  Discussion Questions

  1. One reason Everett had such a strained relationship with his father was because Vince’s love for Everett was based on how well he did, how good he was, et cetera. Have you ever felt like Everett did—trying to perform to earn a parent’s or a friend’s love? How did that make you feel and why?

  2. The “conditional” love Vince had for Everett is the opposite of the “unconditional” love God has for His people—so clearly expressed when Christ voluntarily went to the cross, saying: “Forgive them; for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). Explain the difference between the conditional love of people and the unconditional love of Christ. Then discuss the personal result of the latter, which Everett felt by the end of the novel.

  3. Did you have compassion for Everett at the beginning of Dark Star? Why or why not? How did your feelings toward Everett change as the story progressed?

  4. Karen’s letters to Everett were bold, compassionate, and Spirit-filled. Has God ever led you to step out in such a way to share the gospel with someone? Did you do it? If so, explain what happened. If not, explain what hindered you.

  5. Endora despised the thought of one God being the way to eternal life in heaven. How do you explain this concept to others in a way that is kind, patient, and compassionate? Which Bible verses can you share in such instances?

  6. Everett admitted that, at one time, he needed to be validated by other people. He said, “The approval of people met a need deep inside me.” Can you relate to Everett in this? Or, how have you conquered the inward desire to be a man-pleaser? Discuss.

  7. One of the reasons there was great hope for Everett’s salvation was because he admitted that he wasn’t a good person. Karen helped him understand that he wasn’t alone—all people are sinners, and no one can be good enough to earn God’s favor. Continuing this train of thought, what other important things did she convey to him about becoming a Christian that he hadn’t understood before?

  8. What key role did Mary and Jerry play in Everett’s journey to salvation? Are you playing that role in anyone’s life right now? Explain.

  9. Everett eventually realized that if he was going to follow Christ, he must cut the cord with
Endora. Letting go of destructive relationships is often a necessary step in the lives of new believers. Has this happened to you? Perhaps it’s happening now. Discuss.

  10. Karen told Everett, “We’re not saved by our own works or cleanness. We’re saved only by believing in Him. That’s it. End of story.” Have you been trying to lead someone to Christ by a more difficult path—one filled with works and burdens? Perhaps you need to confess your error and encourage that person to simply accept Christ’s gift of forgiveness and “believe!” Discuss.

  11. When Endora tempted Everett to commit suicide—to jump off the building in New York city—what stopped him? Similarly, what stopped Jesus from falling for Satan’s temptations when He was in the wilderness? (Read Matthew 4:1–11 or Luke 4:1–13.) How can that same weapon keep you safe in times of temptation?

  12. How did Olivia Gilbert’s brain injury and David Lester’s death eventually help lead Everett to God? What circumstances led you to God? Or, what circumstances in your life now may be drawing you closer to Him?

  13. For a while it appeared that Everett would continue to follow in the path of his alcoholic father. What does Dark Star show us about the power of God to change the course of our lives—and the lives of our children?

  14. In Everett’s mind, what was subconsciously so appealing about Karen’s letters and conversations? What was it that she conveyed—in word and/or in manner—that helped lead him into a personal relationship with Jesus?

  15. Karen wrote to Everett that Satan’s goal was to “kill, steal, and destroy.” The Bible tells us to be on the alert, because “your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8). What areas of your life are potential “strike zones” for Satan? It’s good to know these areas, to discuss them, and to be on the alert.

  Don’t miss Dark Star’s exciting sequel

  FULL TILT

  BLACK NIGHT. FAMILIAR BACKSTREETS. Windows down. Cold air. Cruisin’ free.

  Top of the world.

  This was what it was about, baby.

  Lords of the night.

  Over to Fender’s Body Shop on auto pilot. Hands drumming on the dash and seats to the beat of the night and the pulse of the blood pounding through their veins.

  Down the slope.

  Whoa.

  Past the dimly lit customer entrance and around back of the shop they swing and jerk to a stop, exit the Yukon, and glide through the gate that’s cracked open. One, two, three of them.

  Wesley Lester was last to pass through the high chain-link fence. He slowed to peer at the wreckage way out back of the shop, much of which had sat unchanged, like an eerie sculpture, for years beneath a haze of dim yellow lights. Dozens of mangled cars and pickups, SUVs, a hearse, vans, and an old school bus sat still and sinister, like jagged headstones in a haunted cemetery, some piled one on top of the other.

  A couple hundred yards away, over toward the far light post, in that vicinity somewhere, was what’s left of David Lester’s black Camaro. It was a year ago when Wesley’s little brother and two teenage friends perished in that car with David at the wheel; he had been sixteen.

  After having rushed to the surreal scene of the wreck in nearby White Plains, Wesley had never ventured beneath the lamp post out back to reexamine the remnants of his little brother’s car—or the totaled Chrysler that carried an elderly couple from Scarsdale, also found dead at the scene.

  On the way inside the huge body shop, Wesley felt the chill of the late New York fall that his brother would never feel again. Gritting his teeth, he ran and skipped several feet, bashing the already dented door of the white Beamer with his skinny right leg. Spinning away and following the others, he felt a pang of anguish rise up in his stomach, then vanish as he thrust his dead brother out of his jumpy mind.

  Brubaker led the way through the employee entrance, slamming the heavy steel door open against the outside of the fabricated beige metal building. “Ah, smell that?” he said, not looking back. “Good ol’ Bondo. Be high all day if you worked in here.”

  Wesley cruised in last, leaving the door wide open and taking a giant whiff of the pungent air that reeked of metal and plastic dust.

  Like mice, the three figures hurriedly zigzagged their way through a maze of half-repaired vehicles toward an area that glowed white, back in the far corner of the building.

  As they drew closer to the dancing light and long shadows, hard driving music from a boom box mixed with the static sound of a welder. A 1965 steel-blue Mustang sat up on a hydraulic lift, and beneath it—behind a long, black mask and visor—stood Tony Badino.

  Brubaker and Wesley came to a standstill, fascinated by the sparks that rained down on Tony; the stranger stopped between them, equally entranced.

  Tony Badino was about Wesley’s height, five foot ten or so, but with a much stronger build: round shoulders, thin waist, thick legs. Wearing a dirty, charcoal-gray jumpsuit and scuffed brown work boots, Tony must have seen the others but went on welding like a statue for another five minutes.

  Brubaker was like a four-year-old. Constant motion. Repeatedly snapping his fingers, looking back toward the door and out the dirty windows. Meanwhile, the kid in the middle bounced his head, singing, mumbling, and watching wide-eyed as metal melded to metal.

  Wesley’s gaze was fixed on the blue-and-yellow flame and the sparks that clicked, snapped, and floated to the floor, still burning—then smoking and fading.

  In the flame, he remembered his brother, David, curly-haired and anxious, slapping a twenty into his hand for a teener—one sixteenth of an ounce of some of the best crank Wesley had ever come across. Then he flashedback to David’s demolished Camaro hours later, what was left of the engine, and parts of it scattered along Highway 9—still smoking.

  Tony snapped back the flame, lowered the welder in his right hand, and flipped the dark visor up with the other.

  “Boys.” He eyed the uppity kid in the middle.

  “This is the dude we told you about—from Yonkers,” Brubaker said proudly in his dorkiest voice. “Needs an ounce.”

  Tony extinguished the pilot on the welder and lowered it to the concrete floor by its cord, then walked over to the boom box and turned down the volume.

  “Slow down, Brubaker.” He shook off his big, stiff gloves and removed the mask to reveal a tough face with small, pronounced features and a glistening scalp covered by what looked like only about two weeks’ worth of brown hair.

  Reaching inside the front waist pocket of his jumpsuit, Tony pulled out a silver Zippo and a pack of Marlboros, lighting one with shaky, grimy hands. Once again Wesley noticed the tattoo of a small inverted cross on the inside of Tony’s left wrist.

  Grabbing a hanger light from the frame of the Mustang, Tony walked beneath his work, inspecting the length of the exhaust system.

  “How do you know Lester and Brubaker, here?” He tapped the muffler, cig in hand.

  “Ah…a friend introduced me to Wesley at a party.”

  “When?”

  “Last week.”

  “And Brubaker?”

  “Met him a couple nights later.”

  “Been tweakin’?”

  “Ah…when do you mean?” the kid asked, eyes darting to Bru, then Wesley.

  “Tonight.” Tony looked at him.

  “Earlier today,” Wesley interrupted, noticing Brubaker scratching the inside of his elbow repeatedly. “Couple teeners.”

  Tony went back to inspecting his work. “That same stuff?”

  “Yeah, we finished it off.” Wesley coughed.

  “This new crystal blows that stuff away.” Tony glanced at the three visitors, his right eye twitching slightly. “Keep you amped for days. I’ve been workin’ nonstop since yesterday—goin’ on what? Thirty-five hours?”

  The three nodded, swayed, twisted—laughing slightly in response.

  “So you need an ounce.” Tony held the light up close to the tailpipe.

  “Yep,” piped up the k
id in the middle.

  “Good old Wesley Lester,” Tony said. “I can always count on him to bring me the finest clientele. I’ve learned that.”

  Now he turned to examine the kid in the middle.

  “Do you know who this guy is? Who brought you here tonight?” Tony asked, nodding toward Wesley.

  The kid stared at Tony with hollow eyes and shrugged.

  “This is the great Everett Lester’s nephew. Bet you didn’t know that.”

  The kid looked at Wesley. “No way.”

  “Straight,” said Tony. “You’re in the presence of the bloodline of one of rock ’n’ roll’s greatest legends.”

  “Dude,” the kid exclaimed, “I saw one of their very last shows—at the Meadowlands. They played three hours at least.”

  “With Aerosmith,” Tony chimed in. “I was there… Wesley was supposed to be there, backstage.”

  “That’s cold,” Brubaker mumbled.

  Tony shot Bru the evil eye while it went right over the head of the kid in the middle.

  “I lived and breathed DeathStroke,” the kid said. “Lester was so stoned out of his mind that last show, he could barely stand by the end. But they jammed their hearts out.”

  “And now he’s a Jesus freak.” Tony’s eyes shifted to meet Wesley’s, but his head didn’t move.

  The kid in the middle may have noticed the friction as Wesley cooled to an icy chill and his nostrils flared.

  Tony smirked, knelt down, and began tossing some of his tools into the drawers of a tall, red metal toolbox on wheels.

  “What’s he like, anyway?” the kid barged ahead. “Everett Lester, I mean.”

  Brubaker looked uneasy, twisting and bouncing slightly on his toes.

  Tony shot a glimpse back at Wesley.

  “He’s a loser,” Wesley snapped, walking over to a workbench cluttered with old tools. “He’s a hypocrite. A weak, irresponsible waste of breath.”

  “Where does he live? Does he still have a place in Manhattan?”